Scribbles
by urcool91
Summary: A collection of Sherlock oneshots. Everything from H/C to fluff to slash. Rated for wiggle room.
1. Chapter 1

**_This'll just be a generic catch-all for my many Sherlock one-shots. I'm rather nervous writing for this fandom, truth be told. Reviews with constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated. _**

_Friend: a person whom one knows; an acquaintance._

From the moment John Watson had walked into the room, Sherlock had begun deducing. He'd delete it all later, of course, but this was the kind of thing he did automatically. John was… doctor, army doctor, recently invalided from the Middle East, shot, limp and hand tremor (possibly from PTSD)… The list went on and on. John wasn't able to even figure out Sherlock's name naturally. Disappointing. He probably wouldn't last a week.

One week later, John was still there, and Sherlock still hadn't deleted any of his deductions for some reason.

_Friend: a person with whom one is allied in a struggle or cause; a comrade._

Mycroft had been right about one thing. Sherlock's life was a war and probably not the best environment for an army veteran with latent PTSD to recover in. Still, why on earth would John leave now? John needed the adrenaline to function like Sherlock needed cases. It wasn't his fault that this (oddly enough) worked. Besides, it was just getting interesting. Now they had a name (Moriarty, there was no way that was getting deleted), all they needed now was a face and a crime to pin him with.

One month later, Sherlock had a face and a crime and wasn't happy about it for some reason.

_Friend:_ _a person whom one knows, likes, and trusts._

For a second, one bloody second, Sherlock had felt more pain than ever before. He had never had a friend. He had never really trusted anyone. More importantly, he had never wanted so desperately for someone to be worthy of that trust. John had been perfect. Now… to find out _he _was Moriarty… That hurt. Until he saw the bomb and realized what he should have realized immediately. Then he was furious. Scared and furious and desperate to find some way out, any way out, any way to get _John _out alive.

He was stupid. He shouldn't care. But he did, and he'd be damned if he let a psychopath take away his only friend.


	2. Chapter 2

"Look, Mycroft, I know that you were hoping it wouldn't come to this, but I know now that this is only going to end one way." Sherlock stopped, looking down and biting his lip in a rare display of emotion. "When I have died-"

"That is not going to happen."

"It is the only possible outcome of this game now. I'm not asking for your first-born child, Mycroft, I am asking you to get my will in order."

"Sherlock Holmes, you are thirty-two years old, and you are not going to die." Mycroft said this in a perfectly calm, reasonable voice, the politician voice that Sherlock loathed.

"Moriarty is playing to kill, and the kill he wants to make is me. Mycroft, I need you to get my affairs in order." He paused. "Please." Mycroft Holmes stood.

"If it would make you feel better, than I will agree." Sherlock's whole body relaxed.

"Thank you." Silently, Mycroft marveled at the change John had wrought on Sherlock in a little less than two years.

"What do you want in it?"

"Just leave everything to John. Simple."

"Nothing even for your brother," said Mycroft with a sly smile.

"Sod off. It's not like you need anything of mine anyway, being the most powerful man in the nation and all."

"True, but why would John want anything of yours?" Sherlock bristled. "I'm not questioning the man's loyalty, Sherlock. We both know him too well for that. I'm just saying that in doing this you may be bringing him… unnecessary pain."

"If nothing else he could use the money. Army pensions are, sad to say, slightly larger than his actual salary."

"He is not a child, Sherlock. He will be able to get a better job once he doesn't have to babysit you anymore. Besides, even if he can't, I will always be willing to offer him a place on my staff."

"You're just jealous."

"Perhaps I'm just keeping him safe for you."

"You do that. Even after I'm gone and Moriarty's gone, he'll be at risk. Constant risk. If anyone can keep an eye on him it's you."

"I will do my very best." Sherlock rose and made for the door. "Sherlock?" Sherlock paused.

"Yes?"

"You always were the worse chess player of the two of us. When you start caring too much, you are unwilling to take risks and make necessary sacrifices."

"If you're just going to lecture me-"

"We are up against a man who doesn't care how many pieces are removed so long as he gets what he wants. You're our queen, Sherlock. Don't throw yourself away to save some other, less valuable piece."

"You're forgetting that the point of the game, Mycroft. A queen's only duty is to protect the king."

"So you've chosen your king. Interesting, Sherlock. All the same, I will allow you to protect your king, while I protect the Queen and Country."


	3. Chapter 3

Living with Sherlock, you had to be ready to have your deepest secrets laid bare at any time.

_If I wanted to look at naked women, I'd borrow John's laptop._

Half the time it was just a phrase, a tiny prick wound that could be ignored. John would ignore it, because it really wasn't anything to fight over. It was just Sherlock.

_Better yet, stop inflicting your opinions on the world._

Sometimes, it would hurt. Not badly, not bad enough for him to leave. After all, it wasn't as though he had anywhere to go. But, still, it was as though he was being pummeled in the stomach over and over, and Sherlock never even noticed… But then the game would be on, and he would forget the pain in the haze of adrenaline that accompanied every moment of Sherlock's cases.

_Gay._

But sometimes he wished he wasn't so good at forgiving and forgetting. Sometimes it was a civilian who was caught in the gunfire. Then he would watch, trying not to cry as hope was nipped to the bud by that infernal scientist.

He wished, those times, that he could leave.


	4. Chapter 4

The blood stained the carpet, turning the expensive velvet red. John Watson watched as the pool slowly spread, reaching out sluggishly, as though it didn't want to leave him. Somewhere he could hear Sherlock yelling for him, yelling his name. He probably just wants a cuppa, John thought.

The blood was leaking from his stomach and chest. He had dissected human bodies in medical school, of course, and Moriarty had evidently picked up the craft somewhere. He couldn't even be surprised.

In the end, there was no pain. It had to be there, of course, but it wasn't. It was as though he was trapped in a horror movie, but at the same time wouldn't cooperate. He wouldn't scream. He wouldn't give the monster a victory.

He heard the footsteps running towards him. He felt the arms that held him and the shaking of the man's body. He didn't understand why. It wasn't as though he was in pain. He was floating away, detached from it all, and how could that upset him?

He wasn't anybody special. He wouldn't go out in a blaze of glory. He would go, simply leave, flying away to where the pain that had wrecked his insides and torn at his mind, until the wound, would never torture him again. To where there was no blood.


	5. Chapter 5

John H. Watson, MD, was in a very bad mood. Not only had Sherlock run off on him at a crime scene (again), it was raining. John would have taken a cab back to Baker Street, but it was the end of the month and he didn't have any cash.

"Damn you, Sherlock," he muttered to himself with a rueful shake of his head. He would have to walk.

John plunged headlong into the rain, shivering slightly as the drops splattered his face and clothes. It was typical October in London- that is to say, far too cold of him to be walking in the rain.

John was about to give up and go into a café (that took credit) to wait out the rain when an expensive looking black car pulled up next to the curb. John was going to ignore it. Really, the last thing he needed was for Mycroft to decide to kidnap him again. His phone beeped.

_Get into the car, Dr. Watson. -MH _

John rolled his eyes, but he complied. The leather-seated car was, he admitted, much more comfortable than the rain.

"Right, where're we going this time?" he said to not-Anthea. She shrugged, never looking up from her phone, as in the dark about this as he was himself. The car meandered slowly up the road, took a left two blocks down, and then a right after another five. It pulled up in front of the familiar front of 221b Baker Street. While he was staring at the door open-mouthed, his phone beeped.

_Next time, I suggest you bring a brolly. -MH_


End file.
